In the Line of Fire: Hot Desert Heroes, Book 1

by Jett Munroe

  Moving carefully so as to not wake Delaney, he rose up on one elbow to stare down at her. She lay on her back, her face turned toward the large window from which dawn light filtered through gauzy curtains.

  Christ. On her worst day she was gorgeous. But now, one arm cocked, with her hand tucked beneath her pillow, her cheeks lightly flushed, she was breathtaking. Her hair was still in its braid, though after their earlier lovemaking, it was a little worse for wear. Her other arm was also bent, his nestled against it with their fingers entwined and resting between her breasts.

  They’d gone to sleep in this position, and it looked like neither one of them had moved all night. He didn’t know about her, but that was unusual for him, and it freaked him out a little.

  He’d spent the night, something he didn’t ordinarily do after the first time with a woman, and he hadn’t moved at all while he slept, something he always did. How could he be so comfortable with her that she already had him changing his habits?

  Her breathing changed. She stretched and gave a little grunt that, fuck him, he thought was cute. With a mumble she turned onto her side, pressing into him, tucking her face in his throat. She disengaged their hands to slide her arm around his waist. Slender fingers stroked his back from shoulder blade to the top of his buttocks.

  She pressed her lips against his Adam’s apple then bent her head to kiss his collarbone. Moving her head back onto the pillow, she met his gaze. “Hmm, morning,” she whispered on another stretch, her voice as soft and sleepy as her beautiful face.

  He felt that in his dick.

  “Most guys seem to bail after they have sex,” she went on in that quiet voice. “Not that I have a lot of experience with that. I don’t.” Pink swept over her cheeks and her eyes drifted to the side. “I guess you could tell.”

  She really didn’t play games. He’d be shocked to find out she even knew how. Looking into her sleepy face, he decided at that moment he’d be just as real with her as she was being with him.

  “Laney, last night was the best I ever had.”

  That brought her eyes, dark with doubt and disbelief, back to his face in a flash. “Y-you don’t have to say that.”

  He bent his head and placed a kiss at the corner of her mouth. “It’s the truth.” He twisted to grab another condom out of the bedside drawer then slipped his arm around her and pulled her closer, letting her feel his morning erection. “Put your leg up over my hip, baby. Let’s make sure last night wasn’t an anomaly.”

  Her smile was tremulous at first but quickly grew into a wicked grin. “Yes, let’s.” She traced a slender finger along his lower lip. “I want to know for sure you’re not a one-night wonder.”

  With his own shit-eating grin, he did his best to give a repeat performance.

  Chapter Five

  After taking a shower by herself, having convinced Beck with a fairly long argument that taking a shower together and thereby conserving water, while a fine thing to do, would make them both late for work, Delaney dressed in her favorite skirt and blouse and went to the kitchen to make breakfast. She’d already chopped some mushrooms and baby spinach, had bacon crumbles and grated Gruyère cheese ready to go, and was now whisking eggs. Because she was uncertain what he might want in his omelet, she’d also chopped up a shallot and half a red pepper.

  She heard him come into the kitchen and, without turning from the stove, said absently, “I’m making omelets for breakfast, honey. What do you want in yours?”

  Heat from his tall, lean body hit her from her ass to her shoulder blades as he slid both arms around her waist. After having used her raspberry-scented shower gel, it made sense that he smelled good. But underneath the fruit scent was something else, something more, something that was all Beck. He smelled absolutely delicious.

  Drawing her back against him, he pressed a kiss to the curve of her neck. She suppressed a shiver, barely. She could get used to this, making breakfast for her man. For him.

  She could also get used to waking up to him, to him in her kitchen with his strong arms around her from behind.

  This after only one night.

  She might be in a bit of trouble here.

  “I like that,” he murmured, his lips brushing against her skin again.

  She was unsuccessful at fighting back another shiver and had to lock her knees against the sudden imitation her legs were doing of gelatin.

  She liked it too, the tenderness of his lips against the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder, but to be sure they were talking about the same thing, she asked, “Y-you like what?” with the little bit of breath she could manage.

  “You callin’ me honey.”

  Okay, they weren’t talking about the same thing, but she liked that he liked her using an endearment with him. Even if, had she been paying attention, she probably wouldn’t have. Not this early in their relationship. But she’d been halfway in love with him for a year, and wasn’t quite alert enough yet to keep her thoughts from coming out of her mouth. Of course, with Beck, she always seemed to blurt out whatever she was thinking anyway, so why would she even try?

  “I like the skirt you got on too. Makes that sweet ass of yours even sweeter.” He pressed another kiss against her neck. “I’ll take anything you want to put in that omelet, babe. I’m not picky.” He pulled away from her and grabbed the empty mug she’d placed on the counter beside the coffeemaker.

  “There’s creamer in the fridge if you want it,” she told him. “And sugar’s in there,” she added, pointing to a cabinet above the refrigerator. She tried not to stare at him but was woefully unsuccessful. He wore only the trousers of his suit, leaving his scrumptious upper half bare. His hair was still damp from his shower and curled against the nape of his neck and over his ears. She wanted to make breakfast out of him. She’d be full all day.

  Pulling herself together, she went on. “Or if you’d rather have a nonsugar alternative, you can have stevia. Or monk fruit powder if you don’t like the bitter aftertaste stevia can sometimes leave.”

  Dark eyebrows winged up. She supposed he was surprised by the sweetener options available to him. As a guy, he probably only had sugar, which he likely just spooned directly out of the bag.

  “Black’s fine.” He leaned a hip against the counter and looked at her. “Why’s the sugar above the fridge?”

  “I’m trying to cut back, so I put it where I don’t see it all the time and where it’s hard to get to.”

  “Babe, you eat carrot cake muffins almost every damn day of the week,” he muttered, his eyes dancing but also warm and tender.

  It was a look she’d rarely gotten from a man before. Coming from Beck, it was like manna from heaven. The gelatinous quality of her legs increased and her right knee gave way. She braced a hand against the counter so she didn’t go down.

  “You okay?”

  Delaney caught his lip twitch just before he took a cautious sip of coffee.

  “Yes.” She frowned at him. “Why did you bring up the muffins?”

  “I’m just sayin’, you wanna cut back on sugar, those’re a logical choice.”

  Who the hell wanted to be logical? Hadn’t he ever heard that a man shouldn’t come between a woman and her food? Especially when it was decadence pretending to be good for you? Like, say, carrots surrounded by sweetened cream cheese?

  “Those are my daily treats,” she informed him and turned back to the stove.

  Beck’s low chuckle rumbled behind her.

  Damn it, it was as attractive as everything else about the man. There had to be something wrong with him. There just had to be.

  But she had yet to see it. Granted, they’d only been on one date, and had sex twice. There was still a lot to be experienced and learned. She expected sooner rather than later she’d find out there was something about him she couldn’t live with, and mentally braced herself for that eventuali
ty.

  On cruise control she fixed a five-egg omelet with bacon bits, mushrooms, baby spinach, and Gruyère cheese. When it was done, she tipped it onto a platter then divided it, giving him the larger portion, and placed his plate on the island. She put a couple of pieces of sprouted bread into the toaster. “Have a seat,” she ordered as she went to the fridge and brought out the butter dish. She placed it within reach of his plate and asked, “Do you want jelly for your toast?”

  “What’s on offer?” He settled onto a barstool.

  Delaney bent and peered into the refrigerator, absentmindedly swinging one knee back and forth as she listed off, “Grape jelly, strawberry preserves, peach preserves, raspberry jam, blackberry jam, mango jam, orange marmalade, and apple butter. Oh, and there’s an unopened jar of prickly-pear-cactus jelly and a squeeze bottle of local raw honey in the pantry.” She twisted to look at him and waited for him to tell her what he wanted.

  “How many fucking people live here?” was his response as his gaze lifted from where he’d been watching her ass.

  She blinked, not sure where he was going with this. “Just me.”

  “Just you and you have all those selections?”

  She straightened her shoulders. “I never know what I’m going to be in the mood for. They keep in the fridge for months and months. I’ve never had to throw one away because it went bad,” she added in defense of her stockpile of jellies and jams. “Besides, sometimes I make thumbprint cookies and I need the jams for those.”

  He shook his head and gave her another lip twitch. “Babe,” was all he said.

  “I don’t even know what that means,” she muttered at him.

  His lip twitch became a grin as he shook his head again. “Surprise me.”

  The toast popped up. Figuring she’d be safe with an American staple, she grabbed the strawberry preserves and slid the jar across the island toward him. She placed the toasted bread on a small dish and set it beside his plate. Glancing at the digital clock on the stove, she saw she had about twenty minutes before she had to leave for work.

  She dropped another slice of bread into the toaster and, when it was done, put it on her plate and carried it over to the breakfast bar. Heaving her booty up on the stool next to him, she asked, “Are you a native Tucsonan?”

  He finished spreading jelly on his toast and nodded. “Born and bred.”

  “Me too.” She grinned, happy they had that in common. “What high school did you go to?”

  “Sahuaro. Go cougars!” he said with a grin before taking a big bite of toast.

  “I went to Flowing Wells.” She forked up some of her omelet. “Did your parents grow up here too? Mine didn’t. My mom’s originally from Pennsylvania and my dad was born in a small coal-mining town in West Virginia. He died when I was little.”

  “That had to have been tough,” he said and dug into his eggs.

  Delaney frowned, not unaware he hadn’t answered her question about his folks. He seemed oddly reluctant to talk about his family and she couldn’t help but wonder why. But things were so new between them she didn’t want to push it, so for now she let it go.

  She polished off her piece of toast and her section of the omelet in three minutes and after gulping down half a cup of lukewarm coffee said, “I have to brush my teeth and put my shoes on, and get out of here in about ten minutes. Are you just about ready to leave?”

  Beck nodded and forked the last bite of egg into his mouth. He chewed then swallowed and said, “I just need to grab my bag out of the SUV so I can get into clean clothes.” He stacked the now-empty toast plate onto the larger one and set them in the sink. Coming up to her, he paused and slid his arm behind her, resting his large palm on the small of her back. He leaned down to give her a quick, hard kiss on the lips. “Thanks for breakfast, baby,” he said in a low voice soft with tenderness. “It was delicious.”

  “Did you get enough?” she asked, belatedly wondering if she should have made a seven-egg omelet. Or fried up some potatoes. Or cooked some bacon or sausage.

  He lifted a hand and rubbed his forefinger against the frown line bisecting her eyebrows. “I had plenty.” Another kiss, whisper soft, against the corner of her mouth before he murmured, “I’ll be right back.”

  He walked past her. She got her first good look at that spot between his shoulder blades and gasped. “What happened to your back?”

  He stopped and turned toward her. With a shake of his head, he said, “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing.” She gripped his biceps and pulled him around so she could look at it. The skin was mottled purple and blue and about the size of her fist. “That’s definitely not nothing.”

  “I had to use an old Kevlar vest because the new ones with ceramic plates haven’t arrived yet. If I’d had a new vest on, I wouldn’t have been bruised.” He shrugged as if it was no big deal.

  It might not be to him, but it sure as hell was to her.

  “Laney, it’s part of the job.”

  She looked up at him. “What’s part of the job, exactly? How did you get this?” Hearing him talk about Kevlar vests, she was pretty sure she already knew how he’d gotten that bruise, but she wanted him to tell her. So she’d know for certain.

  His lips thinned. “I was shot,” he finally told her. “Bulletproof vest stopped the round, but bruising’s the residual damage.”

  Shot. He’d been shot.

  Delaney tottered back a few steps. She swallowed, her throat tight. In a voice shaking from the pounding of her heart, she whispered, “You were shot?”

  Beck’s face went soft. He cupped her cheek. “Baby, you know what I do.”

  “I was hoping you did it with a computer,” she cried. She threw out a hand. “Behind a desk. That you were the inside man who strategized.”

  “Laney, we sometimes act as personal security. You know that. We can’t be personal security if we’re not putting ourselves out there where the client is.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t like this.” Searching his eyes, she asked, “Can’t someone else do it?”

  Those eyes hardened to pewter. “Who, Laney? Ty? Gabe? Which of my friends do you want me to put in the line of fire?”

  “Anyone but you!” She didn’t really mean that, but she kinda-sorta did. She didn’t know his friends well, but she wasn’t as invested in their welfare as she was Beck’s.

  Frustration and the beginning of anger rolled off him in waves she could almost feel. He was getting irritated with her. Experience had taught her that soon would come hurtful words and maybe even the lashing out of a hard fist. She took a few more steps away from him. “I don’t want any of you in danger,” she mumbled.

  “That’s not your call, sweetheart.” The endearment didn’t match the hard tone of his voice, and the harsh emotion emanating from him didn’t abate. Once again Beck called her sweetheart when he didn’t mean it.

  He obviously didn’t want her butting into his business. Fine. She made note that this was an off-limits subject.

  “Never mind,” she whispered. “You’re right. It’s none of my business. I’m just the woman you’re having sex with.” She brushed by him with a muttered, “Excuse me. I have to brush my teeth.”

  “Laney—”

  “I’m gonna be late for work.” She kept going and closed the door to her master bathroom behind her, locking it for good measure. Hopefully he’d take the few minutes she was in the bathroom to go get his suitcase out of the car. Then he could dress and be gone.

  She brushed her teeth while blinking back tears. Was this the way things would be between them? She would express an opinion and he’d shut her down? She’d had enough of that with her ex. After a while she’d learned to keep her mouth shut and just let him do whatever he thought needed doing. Until he put her in the hospital. She was not going through that with another man, even if that man was Bec
k.

  As she thought about it, the tears dried up and anger started burning in her gut. No, by golly. If they were going to have a relationship, a real relationship beyond booty calls, then she got to have a say in his life. As he did in hers. He thought, if she was trying to cut back on her sugar intake, she should lay off her carrot cake muffins, which wasn’t going to happen, and which, to his credit, he didn’t seem to want to happen anyway. She thought he should stop putting himself in front of bullets, and she was entitled to her opinion. She was also allowed to voice that opinion. He wasn’t shy about telling her what he thought, so why should she hold back?

  She rinsed her mouth and blotted her lips dry. She swung open the door to find him dressed and waiting for her in the bedroom.

  “Laney—” he began.

  She held up a hand and went into her closet for the sandals she usually wore with this outfit. Once she had them in hand, she grabbed her purse off her dresser and headed toward the living room, Beck right behind her.

  “I don’t think it’s unreasonable for me to be worried about someone I l-like,” she said, brave enough to tell him what she thought, but not quite brave enough to look at him while doing it or to put into words how she much more than merely “liked” him. Sitting down in a tufted armchair, she bent to strap on her sandals. “Furthermore, I should be allowed to express that concern without being made to feel like I’ve overstepped the boundaries into forbidden territory.” She stood and finally looked at him.

  He leaned against the doorjamb a few feet away, his stance casual, with one ankle crossed over the other, toe of his boot to the floor, and arms crossed. His face was blank. She couldn’t tell what he was feeling, though he wasn’t giving off negative vibes.

  She drew in a breath and with the little bit of courage she had left told his shoulder, “If that’s the kind of relationship you want, then you’ve got the wrong woman. I walked on eggshells for years around my husband and it never made a difference. I’m not doing the same thing with you. With anyone.”